


dragonflies

by flosculous



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Jon and Sansa are Cousins, Mad Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Past Sexual Abuse, Past jonsa, Politics, Post-Season/Series 08 Finale, Pregnancy, Sansa and Viserys relationship is developing, Sansa is kind of in love with Jon, Viserys Targaryen Lives, Viserys is different, Viserys is not nice, Westeros, but develops feelings for Viserys, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-15
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2020-12-17 02:43:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21046991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flosculous/pseuds/flosculous
Summary: Sometimes she can taste peace on her tongue and in the way her bones relax while the heat from the other side of bed comes to her in blazing waves.AU Post Season 8, Viserys lives and at Daenerys order Sansa marries him. Jon resides in King's Landing.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> Viserys lives; after Daenerys burning of King's Landing she orders Sansa and Viserys to be married. For punishment of not bending the knee. Jon is her prisoner yet a prince. Viserys is hurtful, so is Sansa.

There are six scars stretched against the bare back of her husband. They are white and poorly stitched but at the same time they are mesmerizing. The edges sharp as the wind hitting walls and smooth like a blade from valyrian steel. His skin is almost blinding her with its paleness and under the starlight she can easily see the magnificent pull she sometimes feels towards him. His breathing is sound and perhaps for that she is the most grateful. It's been moons since her nights were full of terrors and an unleashed pain - the way his deep intakes of air echo through their chamber make her feel almost alive. The fur sticks to her naked body, the feeling of home and her ancestory trapping her with the lukewarm feelings as she tries to sleep.

The sleep does not come.

After the war she is left with too many unanswered questions and too little time to think about them. Winterfell and its people are in the constant need of help and she gives her all, truthfully - and maybe somewhere in between she loses herself. She's too young to wither and let fatigue overtake her. Sansa's blue eyes track invisible patterns on her husband's body as her brain shifts with thousands thoughts. Sometimes she can taste the peace on her tongue and in the way her bones relax while the heat from the other side of bed comes to her in waves. The heat helps her in coping with stillness in her damaged life. She flexes her fingers as if to pull his long tresses from the back of his neck. To see the way his veins move under that marble structure. They are soft in touch and perhaps she is too foolish to realize that her lord husband is full of a mysterious halo and twisted things that contradict with each other. His jaw muscle tenses under her touch but after a while relaxes, his full lips part with light exhale. There are billions of unsaid words between them. Anger ebs from his hatred as her strange melancholy crashes into his person with magnificent force. They are two opposites. Her fingertip stops just above his collarbone.

She remembers things she shouldn't have stored in her memory but the distance between her finger and his body sends images she buried under her steel mask of indifference. Men are easily manipulated, she knows this by her heart and yet she stares at the strong and dark brows of the sleeping male and her chest caves in. The thoughts of him hadn't crossed her mind since she has been wedded under the Weirwood tree last spring. The hole in her heart is big enough to allow the pain to come in so she turns away. It's physically impossible to face her husband when the eyes of another still burned into her mind make her so incredibly weak. Sansa knows that love is something that comes additional, there aren't knights or naive ladies anymore. 

Does he think about her? Does he care? Had he forgiven her? 

Struck with an overwhelming sensation, she sits up. The fur cover slides from her slender figure and she shivers. She can pin point the stickiness between her legs and sharp scent of what has transpired before. The night is chilly and cold but she likes it that way, she can feel true North sweeping through her covers and into her bones. Long red tresses are tangled at their ends as she tries to leave the bed. He likes to play with them, hum as his slender fingers caress her scull and later her tired shoulders. She finds him surprising after all. They clash in many areas, yet they somehow make their marriage work. When her foot touches cold floor a swift action of caging her wrist in one's fingers accur. Sansa turnes around to see his blazing eyes searching for an answer.

He is handsome.

If she was younger she would have probably goosh over his marble like features and sharp gaze. However, as she is older and wiser she sees a man that possesses extraordinary beauty with a dose of cruelty behind that loveliness. Men are all liars. Even her good and sweet father. Her husband senses her silent battle and massages the back of her palm.

"What have I told you about those dreams?" his voice sounds wrong at first but she comes from her memory lane and finds herself warm. He moves like a hunter but at night speaks like a poet. Her eyes roam around his person to stop at his chest. Human heart is such a fickle thing, she wonders.

"I wasn't that tired, sleep has never came to me at all," she supplies with soft smile to ease sleeping dragon. Maybe he's too drowsy to interrogate her as his hand pulls her closer to him. His scent overwhelmes her nostrils and before she knows his lean arms wrap around her waist. Almost protecting, almost as if he cared for her. His chin rests upon the crown of her hair and she relaxes.

"You're making me anxious. Leaving me, I mean. It's such a cruel thing to do," his baritone tickles her ear. She knows the feeling, maybe even got used to it. So she calms his worries by placing chaste kiss to his pale forearm. Fate is a strange thing. How the two of them; unlovable by others make such a pair together?

"Viserys," his name is a raw feeling between her heart and mind. "Would you tell me about Essos?" maybe the in between is the key. Him and her so familiar with rejection and lack of love but so different when it comes to power. She does not think much about it when his fingers play on the skin of her lower stomach.

"If it pleases you,"

Viserys is a strange man. Perhaps complicated with demons of his past while constantly fighting them - oftentimes she catches glimpses of dragon fire she longs to forget. He's everything but nothing she wished for, the pale colors and light eyes - so different and cold. Yet, he's her husband. And even with his hurtful words and loud outbursts he treats her with gentleness she wasn't expecting. Not from him. Not from any Targaryen.

But she yearns for a black crow to ascend from the unforgiving sky - to take her away. Maybe, Sansa closes her eyelids, maybe she will forget calloused hands and gazes of unspoken love. Maybe, she hums, maybe she can be set free of this prison of platonic feelings burning her soul like a wild fire. Thin lips kiss her neck and she lets the memories fade away. Slowly. Softly. Almost as if she didn't want to do so. 


	2. ii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for supporting this story! We are going to jump into past but don't worry - you are going to enjoy time shift in this one.

It was Brian’s vision that brought Sansa to the ashes of once glorious city of King's Landing. He sat underneath the Weirwood tree and with eyes milky and empty - devoid of traces of her little brother she used to pamper - he said she was expected there. Even though the distrust was flowing through the veins in her body, Sansa knew she could trust her family. The thing was different from the broken trust between cousins and almost lovers. It was a thin line, but a line nevertheless. She didn't want to go at first, for the place was a spider's web of her worst nightmares. A wound that pestered and has never stopped oozing. She heard rumors; of fires so great that city was devoured in an hour, of wings so black that sun didn't have a chance to win against the beast’s fury. It was never the city she pitied. The filth and splendor was nothing in comparison to unjustified deaths of thousand innocent people. As she made her way through the destroyed streets on her white horse Sansa was struck by raw panic. People, adults and children burnt and left for wind to sprinkle their ashes in the air. Gone without a proper burial. Just forgotten. 

During the ride she observed her blonde haired companion. Brienne’s worries and heartbreak were as sound as her own ones - she sympathized with female Knight, knowing well that in the twisted allegory of things Jon could never be Jaime. Jon chose  _ her _ . If Brienne ever saw her strange behavior and nervous antics she had never spoken about them and for that she was utterly grateful. Her red hair was pulled in two braids connected to each other at the back of her head, rest of tresses loose and free -  _ he _ liked them that way. Sansa was expecting him to be angry with her, claw his cold grey eyes into her skull and bite his lips so hard they almost bled. She did what she had to; bleeding and fighting for the Northern independence. She did what Robb did and maybe even more. Even if her choices were hurtful and she had became more paranoid she fought for her right. _Yet_, yet he - in all his stupid bravery and goodness chose a tyrant. The bitter feeling of betrayal was so palpable she had to grip a wall for support. 

“My Lady, maybe you can rest before the meeting,” she eyed concerned Knight as her fingers dug into mismatched stones. What was left of the Red Keep was a load of holes and broken furnitures laying around the empty interiors. Ghosts of halls and her childhood swam through the cold and dark place with pain coming at her in waves. Gripping a dragonfly necklace placed upon her neck she closed her eyes. Her song was a cry for help, so earnest and raw but yet no one seemed to hear it. Sansa thought about her Lady Mother and her stories - of Jenny who would dance with ghosts and love people who had left her.  _ Oh Mother, have we both became Jenny?  _ She longed for her mother's soothing voice and gentle way of braiding her hair. She missed her father's sparkling glances and warm smiles. She was deprived of love. 

“No, it has to be now,” nodding at her Northern escorts her legs moved from one stair to another. With each step her chest vibrated with pain;  _ this step is for Robb and his unborn child, this one is for Mother and her suffering, this one is for Father and his kindness, this one is for Rickon and his wasted youth.  _ Agony wasn't a stranger to her but how could one person bear so much in such a short period of time and not lose even the tiniest part of themselves. She caught Brienne’s blue gaze and with difficulty put a strained smile. Monsters were intimated by happiness. When she finally saw that ugly, twisted chair she recalled her beatings and shame. Sansa's song was always based upon suffering and bravery, however looking at another tyrannical ruler the song burned with anger. Dark and foreboding shadow danced behind Daenerys Targaryen and for a moment beast's wings sprung and shook on the thin air. Dragons were meant only for destruction, they didn't do any good. 

“Lady Sansa, it's my pleasure to see you on my rightfully earned soil,” Queen's voice echoed through destroyed hall with a painfully shrill undertone. Her violet eyes trained upon Sansa were watching her, stripping bare from her steel armor of defiance. ”Was the journey bearable?” she asked while standing up. The throne behind almost consumed her small person. Tully eyes glued to the black dragon moved to young woman in front of her. 

“Yes, your grace. It was a long way but fortunately we made it through,” courtesy was an old friend Sansa used in situations where game was either to live or die. She knew had she failed mother of dragons would burn her without a thought. “I saw the streets of your conquest, your grace. It seemed as such a violence wasn't necessary.”

Purple eyes burned in hatred she once saw in Lannister’s eyes. She wondered why,  _ why _ gods fashioned her so easy to hate and so hard to love. The steps of shorter female were rigid and not so quite elegant. It was the rage behind her movements that made Sansa's convoy shift. 

“What do you know about fighting, Lady Sansa?” there was a dangerous note of madness buried in the depths of that question.  _ Courtesy _ . Courtesy was a lady's best friend. 

“Nothing, your grace,” it was like taming a wild animal, but not one like direwolf - a one more feral and unapproachable. Smug smile tugged on Daenerys face as she stood in front of the Northern campaign. 

“That's what I thought. Yet, you are here at my bidding,” she was calculating who rallied behind Sansa's back and with a swift change of burning embers in her Targaryen eyes she turned around. “I know about your treason. Treason aimed at me, rightful ruler of Seven Kingdoms. You betrayed me and your own kin. I heard it wasn't first time,” her features twisted as she stared at Stark woman. 

Sansa thought about the sound the birds made when her father's head was chopped. They flew so high with wings flapping and cries of unknown distraught. She had envied them; especially their freedom. She also recalled the sight of blood dripping from wooden platform. Drop after drop her father bled for the truth and her stupidity. The tension between them was suffocating - it made her feel small and young and she hated it. 

“It seems so, your grace,” Sansa supplied with pain gnawing on her throat. She had to go through it for her family, for North, for Lady's white and soft paws taken away so unexpectedly. The thoughts of Bran and Arya filled her with new amounts of courage and resilience. She just had to survive. Silver haired Queen made her way towards throne not sparing Sansa another glance. 

“At first I wanted to strip you from your titles then I thought about commanding your death,” she looked pensive but frightening as she tapped her pale finger on one of the swords. “You see, even after your betrayal there were people who wanted to spare you. Even your cousin,” Daenerys spat with venom as Sansa's chest rose up and down in anxiety. “As a just queen I agreed on one condition. My brother Viserys and you are to be wed. He will live with you in Winterfell. Isn't that what you've always wanted? Marry a prince and live happily in your home,” she drawled searching for the reaction upon Sansa's face. Drogon moved and its huge and terrifying head loomed at the back of the metal chair . 

“If it pleases you, your grace,” Sansa looked at the dragon and deep down inside she wished it would burn her. The death seemed so peaceful and justified at that moment. Targaryen madness whirled around violet eyes as the small woman made her way upon beast's neck. Dragon made such a terrible sound and with an unimaginable force jumped spreading its black wings. When the queen vanished Sansa thoughts almost crushed her under their weight. Excusing herself from the Northern escort she fled through corridors. In a haze of memories she ran leaving tears behind her.  _ Mother, why my song is such a cruel thing?  _

The air slapped her cheeks when she stumbled into the courtyard. Red flames of her hair shone brightly under the unforgiving heat of King's Landing. She walked towards hill with emptiness in her heart and stillness of her mind. The dark waters and colored ships called her back to home. She closed her eyes imagining crisp air and smell of lemon cakes in the rehabilitating Winterfell. Had she looked deeper she would have seen her siblings running through Crypts with flour smeared on their rosy faces. Her tears stopped as she put trembling hands on her stomach.  _ Lannister, Stone, Bolton and Targaryen. _ Between them the almost Baelish and almost Arryn. Grip on her blue dress was becoming more harsh and desperate. Sansa's heart sang a small, sad melody as her eyes looked over the ashes and ruins. For all the names and husbands she would always be a Stark. 

_ It is what it has to happen. This is your fate. No one can change that.  _

Bran’s words felt like a knives and hurt like a whip on bare skin as the strange thing called fate curled a loop around her neck. 

* * *

The wolf inside her howled, the sound swept through her veins to the tender tissue of her bones - it howled and howled making holes in her shattered heart, making the wilderness inside of her cry out in anguish and sorrow. The claws tearing her insides, twisting and morphing into a wolf so big it could destroy mountains. She felt as if the world around her stretched so far that the very well known grey eyes looked at her as if they were strangers. It was coming upon her once again, his betrayed look and her anger. Truthfully she was exasperated, the prickling feeling underneath her fingers only intensified. Sansa wasn't a violent person but after bleeding her heart and soul for her home and people she loved, she rightfully wanted to smack some sense into Jon's accusing gaze. The thing between them was heavy, almost suffocating and mostly tragic. She knew her story wouldn't be a happy one but falling for her half-brother being her curse was a straw she wished she hadn't picked. Half-brother turned into cousin - still, the idea of Cersei’s poison made her too overly suspicious to fight back. She wondered if Jon understood the weight of her feelings, the weight he dropped onto her when he gave North away. _ The North is yours. _ He got rid of her from his heart and Sansa howled - in the nights full of terrors and pain, she cried to the moon wishing for strength. Unlovable. She was such an unlovable creature. He looked at her and she could swear the misery in her heart reached his own as his face became unreadable. Maybe she could fix that situation, help him understand that what she did was in favor of honoring him and keeping North safe.

“I hope you are rested,” his rough baritone vibrated in her ears and with a familiar longing she took a step forward. He tensed and her lips fell down. He didn't want her touch. He didn't want  _ her _ . Sansa fingertips were itching to push him, grab him and yell. Yell all the things she had done when he was away, climbing into the mad queen’s bed; how she fought for him, how she kept North safe. Jon's troubled features shifted when he saw fire in her Tully eyes. “You betrayed my trust, my secret,” the power of his voice lowered when his shaking hand went through his black locks. They were messy and his beard was disgustingly long and unkept. Not like his usual one from before he went to Dragonstone. She stopped her movements and stared at him; stared at the boy who was killed and brought back to life, a man she thought of so different than others. The scars on her body ignated with animosity and tiredness. Hadn't he seen how much she lost for everyone's sake. Just because of her _name_ she had suffered and died bit by bit before the bird inside changed into a wolf and led her to him. 

“I did what I had to do. To protect Winterfell, to protect Bran and Arya, to protect you,” she whispered with coolness she gathered from her silent rage. He wasn't thinking back then and he still hasn't been able to see the truth. Sansa's words echoed in an empty corridor as his chest pumped blood too rapidly to his organs. ”You could have saved us from all of this, your name and claim,” her fingers shook when she stepped closer. Hadn't he seen how easy it would have been to use his claim to end Era of tyrants and fires. Love blinds people, she knew the consequences. 

“I'm tired of being savior, Sansa,” her name on his lips pained her. Jon didn't meet her eyes and crossed his arms. “I thought you would be the one to understand,” the accusation stung. For she was constantly trying to understand him and to make him listen to her. Her woolen dress swirled on dirty floor as she turned away from him. Just looking at Jon made her furious at her own stupidity.  _ A girl who never learns _ , she snorted under her breath. 

“You made your own choices, Jon. Choices I can't support,” Sansa looked back at his hunched form and for a second she thought she saw him blanching at her sharp words. He looked like a direwolf ready to pounce as his stare magnified with each ragged breath he took. “By your actions my faith was set. No one can protect anyone, I say this to you once again,” her hair fell in waves as she walked through cold passages of Red Keep. Her heart restlessly jumped in her chest with memories and unsaid words hanging in the air. Leaning on stone wall for support, Sansa looked through the window. Her prison was her own stupidity. Yet she wasn't a caged bird anymore. She was a wolf.

* * *

She heard about Viserys for the first time when she was a Lannister prisoner. The stories about dragons and mad Targaryens echoed through the halls and kitchens for a long period of time but no one seemed to be bothered by her as they went on gossiping about princess and prince.  _ Beggar King _ they called him. Mad and bitter with a sister who surpassed him in every sense. One day when Shae told her that he had sold his mother's crown and wasn't the same anymore, she pitied him. She imagined herself throwing her heirlooms away and she wept. Wept for every orphan out there, for injustices passed upon innocent children and for holes in human hearts cocooned in pain of losing family. The second time she heard about him was when she pretended to be someone else. Peter had whispered that Viserys was stationed in Essos, whereas his sister continued to conquer other parts of the world. Alone and by himself Viserys was an enemy and friend, Peter had said. Sansa thought about young Arya alone in a world so dangerous and cruel and sobbed in her black hair. Back then there were letters and reports about the mad prince and his unbalanced wrath, yet she had found herself underwhelmed when she finally met him. 

The dinner hall was dark and lonely as she sat on a wooden chair. Brienne looked sorrowful and haunted throughout her stay in King's Landing and Sansa secretly wished for her to return to Winterfell. Ghosts of Jaime Lannister were painfully crashing into her sworn shield from every direction of ravaged palace. Jon and Tyrion didn't spare her a glance when she walked in and for that she was grateful. It wasn't a time to fake pleasantries. After a short moment door opened again, she was expecting Daenerys but to her surprise it was the prince. He looked like nothing she had imagined him to - no strong masculine features, no muscular body. A tall and thin frame with white hair cascading to his slim shoulders loomed in the doorway. Violet eyes, darker than his sister were sharp and almost stabbing. He had prominent facial bones; shaped like a marble statues, but not like a dragon. Viserys stopped and spared her quick look before sitting on her left. He didn't seem warm or gentle. He was like an ice cut from the Wall - with his demeanor and appearance he fitted Northern lands more than a sunny and hot weather of King's Landing. The way he carried himself was predatory yet not dangerous enough to make her scared. She vowed to never be reduced to small and beaten bird, she wasn't going to be submissive. A wolf and dragon - just not like she had wished for. She quickly dropped her judging stare. Jon's glare burned her as if she was set on fire but he quickly changed direction of it as queen arrived in her black robes. 

“Everyone's here so we can begin,” her placid tone and fake smile didn't make the atmosphere better. It made it almost unbearable. The dishes were salty and strangely spicy - Targaryen siblings didn't mind that but Sansa couldn't get through another plate of meat. She longed for sweet taste of lemon cakes. Lilac irises eyed her palm as she fought with the instinct to curl it underneath the table. 

“Your grace, I heard you had announcement to share with us,” Tyrion’s words cut the silence as Daenerys beamed - this time not faking it. White haired woman stood and took a goblet full of wine in her hand. Her eyes scanning the room before settling upon Sansa's person. 

“I have a toast. Lady Sansa soon will be my sister by marriage,” the tips of her fingers tapped goblet before she drank rich, red alcohol. Few things happened, Tyrion coughed, Jon abruptly stood up and Viserys dropped his fork with a loud bang. “To my brother Viserys and lady Sansa,” Targaryen queen mocked them with a delight on her cold features. Jon looked from Daenerys to Sansa with wild look on his face. He just had to take it silently, she prayed to gods that her stern gaze told him to leave the engagement alone. He started to open his lips but Tyrion’s witty remark about Targaryen dynasty stopped Jon's outburst. Her blue eyes stung and with a slow motion she took glass on her own and drank. Her betrothed scowled at her before standing up, leaving the room.  _ Both unhappy _ , she mused. Beggar prince and tormented princess. How it suited both of them.

* * *

Hazy from her memories Sansa does not seem to feel passing hours. Red and green leaves of Weirwood tree dance on spring air as her blue eyes settle on the person sitting next to her. Bran is silent, lately more than usual and Sansa worries - he doesn't talk yet his eyes speak in thousand languages. His gaze is heavy and strange, so different from the little boy who used to climb towers. She is scared that something or someone is going to take him away; even more farther than he is now. 

“Father and mother loved to spend their time here,” she finally breaks silence and looks at landscape with soft smile. She can see redness of her mother's hair and darkness of her father's beard. It's been such a long time since she thought about them. Her heart aches and she twists her fingers under beige cloak. 

“You should be happy,” Bran says without a change on his stony face. Her brows furrow as she stares at her brother with too many questions on her mind. “They would have wanted you to be happy, Sansa,” he supplies tilting his head towards the crown of tree. His side view reminds her of him as a child and she burns this image in her memory. She slowly closes the distance between them, crouching beside him and touches his cold like snow hand. 

“Bran,” she whispers with a little bit of sadness in her voice. “Why won't you come back?” he blinks, not looking at her - as if she was nowhere to be found or was an invisible creature. Her grip on his palm strengthens as she awaits for his answer. 

“I can't,” his lips move when the rest of his body seems frozen in one place. Like a statue. “It's not the time for me to return. I will, someday,” he adds and she could swear that soft pressure on her fingers is his own touch.  _ Her little brother _ , she thinks with ache so strong she has to bury her cheeks into his clothing. “It's time for you to find peace. As you've always wanted,” she peers at him under her lashes and squeezes his arm even more. 

“You saw my future,” her treacherous mouth moves on its own and he stops her before she can make another mistake. 

“Sansa, you can't have both of them,” then he rolls his eyes and the milky white that covers his brown irises scares her. He is gone. Gone with the wind and things she can't understand - somewhere between a time and history. She stands and looks at his person with anxiety written on her features. The meaning of his words is simple yet she isn't ready to dwell upon them. When she moves through the Godswood, Sansa looks at the nature surrounding Winterfell. It has spread since the Night King's fall - snow and grass together with air so crisp it burns her lungs with its clarity. She feels at ease, here in her home with ghosts of lost lives and childhood joy. In these moments she can picture another generation of little footprints on the ground and echoes of giggles vibrating through the castle walls. It's a silly dream, a dream of spring she held in her heart even when winter ate her bones. Spring smells like a chance in happiness, she thinks as she passes through the corridors of her ancestors. The rebuilt walls are steady enough to let maids stagger around with smiles on their faces. Sansa likes to see them content, if they are happy then the times are good, even peaceful. Not worth paralysing sense of dread she wishes to forget. 

When she finally reaches Great Hall she stops to catch a breath. There are times she comes this way and she can still hear  _ his _ voice booming with authority and gentleness - she always runs as if she could chase the ghost of past. Yet she can't. She can't see  _ him _ anywhere. Emptying her face from emotions she steps inside and sees her husband at the table with goblet of liquid, presumably wine, in his pale hand. Lord Royce sees her and with a bow excuses himself, leaving Sansa alone with Targaryen prince. His purple eyes twinkle behind the rim of golden goblet as he waits for her to move. Her green dress is a contrast to the darkness behind her and she thinks he likes the color of it as his pupils slightly shake. 

“My lord,” she comes closer and sits on his right. His scent is something she has always noticed - masculine but soft like a dew on frozen meadow. It reminds her of forests and tall trees deep in the North. There are too many contradictions as he's born from the fire of ancient dragons. His lips quiver when his palm goes to her tresses. Long and slim fingers play with her hair, soft hum coming under his breath. 

“My wife,” he says and leans forward, kissing her pink lips with tenderness he oftentimes forgets. She can taste the wine and lust - lust for her; her mind and body. Without permission her mounds open with soft giggle on her tongue. “And what's so amusing?“ she blinks and in the closure of their faces she can spot yellow specks of hue in his eyes. She thinks he is finally settling here in the North. Even if he doesn't say as much she can see the change in his behavior. 

“Nothing. Can't I be happy without a reason?” she asks looking at his white eyelashes as his body returns to previous position. He looks regal, like a king even - in black and red he is a vision, a little damaged one but a vision nevertheless. He doesn't look like a beggar; he looks like a man. A man who is her husband. She slowly notices letters in front of him and her heart sinks when she spots Targaryen seal. 

“My sister,” he spats and lilac eyes burn. The dragon awakes and it scares her, the way he changes like a whiplash - from gentle to harsh but never on her body, never with physical force. Just words, cruel and hurtful - coming from the broken shell of his childhood and traumas she recognizes one by one. “She announced her visit. In two moons,” Viserys stands and his movements are fast and deadly. He is irritated and paranoid but stops behind her chair and slants forward. “She wants to check on me, see if I plan something. She doesn't even care about us,” his breathing tickle her ears as she twists in her seat to steal a glance at his distressed face. Constantly in fear of not being enough to surpass his sibling, her husband falls into his despair and anger with a maniacal tendency. 

“She has every right to do so. Hopefully not for a long stay,” she wants him to ease before the fire in his eyes becomes firestorm casted upon her. Sansa pities him and herself, their fears are solely based upon tragedies. It's not a wonder why her husband acts so strangely and particularly paranoid. “You have me and my family,” she means her words. She is like a balm, she wants him to soothe in her voice. His fingers curl on her shoulders and she winces - _no_, it's not the pain or pressure of his digits, it's his shaky inhalation and the state he's in. 

“Your mute brother who doesn't spare me a glance and sister who comes and goes as she pleases,” the venom is harsh and cuts her shattered heart. Happiness dims away with each word he hisses. She bites her tongue. She is so tired. “And my wife. My _beautiful_, cold wife who can't bring herself to love me,” he spats in her ear and lets go of her as if she was a disease. Maybe she is, just like him - an abomination formed to be hated and unloved by others. She breathes through her nose and clenches fists on her dress before she opens her eyes. Viserys looks through the window, his back turned and spine so tense that if she touched it, it would break. She stares at him and the more she does the more insecurities and pain she can spot. Her torment shaped her differently - Viserys’ suffering made him meticulously tenuous. 

“You know I care for you,” her voice is small but steady. It flows through the Great Hall and echoes back to them. She can sense his foreboding halo as he glances back at her. He looks wild and menacing - yet he stands and stares. A bitter laugh comes from his throat that shakes his shoulders and slowly almost whole of his body. 

  
“Care and love are two different things, Sansa,” he says with broken smile on his lips. “I thought you knew the difference,” her husband adds and with a fierce walk he vanishes from the interior leaving her alone. Love. Her heart aches - she doesn't know how love is supposed to feel anymore. 


	3. iii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Viserys and Sansa.   
Fire and Ice.   
Dragon and Wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm amazed by the response my story has received so far. Thank you for being patient with the wait for this chapter, hopefully it will be met with your expectations. Once more, thank you!

The landscape looks like it usually is whenever she decides to stare at barren sights of North. Snow is falling, cold wind plays with white powder as her blue eyes search for an unknown threat in the trees in front of her. This place belongs strictly to her; to her traumas and resilience. However it also brings her relief, peace. The battlements are her safe haven where she finds broken pieces of her past and ghosts of Winterfell. Here she can fully feel winter and spring pouring their seeds onto her shattered heart with leaps of hope. Winterfell is hers, Aryas, Brans - and Robbs, Rickons too and _maybe Jons too_, had he chosen it, and not the unforgiving heat of Kings Landing. The legacy of her family is heavy and ominous, the sinking feeling only deepens when she scrunches her nose at the thought of a black dragon flying above the North once again. Her husband isn’t necessarily pleased with his sister's arrival and for that she is grateful. She finds their resentment soothing - she isn’t alone in disliking queen’s orders. It makes her strangely peaceful, that thought of him not supporting mother of dragons. Sansa sighs and with a slow movement her hands cups handful of snow. It’s cold and blindingly pure - it melts across her fingers leaving her with an indescribable emotion in her mind. In this tender moment she can softly sag against the stone with pain latched onto her young face; the weather is changing rapidly, making the scars on her body painfully alive. She's the Lady of Winterfell and her duties don’t allow her comfort of laziness. She is constantly moving and counting - food rations, wood, grains. It’s an never ending circle and she loses herself in doing everything for everyone but not even a small thing for herself. A badly stitched wound on her hip tingles and she displays her fingers above it as if she could stop the suffering from overpowering her person. It’s been like that since she left Ramsey’s wretched body for hounds to devour. She always loses count when it comes to her scars: there are ones which she can’t and won’t forget but some of the smallest she tends to overlook - just in case they bring awful memories with them. Truthfully, most of them do. 

“What have I told you about your guards, sister?” Her lips crack at the sound of Arya’s arrival. She moves like a wolf, at first she was scared and tense whenever her little sister came up to her without a prior notice. Whispers of her past tortures still had some power over her. 

“I wanted to be alone,” she answers and looks at the face of her father. It’s a painful feeling - looking at the features of honorable Ned Stark and seeing severed head over and over again, but then it becomes just a flicker underneath ivory layers of her agony. Arya’s eyes scan her every move as if she was a book to read. Full of mysteries. 

“You always say that, but in the end it’s not a solitude you seek but acceptance,” her wistful voice sounds so strange and almost adult like that she has to double check if it’s Arya in fact. Her grey orbs too wide and too familiar wrench the closed under her ribs, quickly beating faulty organ there. She shuts her eyelids with an audible gasp. 

“If only mother could hear you right now,” her hum is met with a laugh from younger woman. “She would have been proud,” letting a smile on her dry lips Sansa imagines her family alive. “Father too,” she adds with longing in her chest. 

“They are, somewhere,” brown hair contrast with the whiteness of landscape as her sister circles her body. The yellow specks in her irises look underneath her perfect mask and for a moment Sansa feels anxiously small and young. “You’re hurting,” her chin moves in the direction of her older sister’s palm hovering above grey dress. “Sansa,” there are cold digits on her hand and she bristles but remains in one place. “Has he done anything to you?” 

Her husband face resurfaces in her mind. Silver halo of his hair splashed on a woolen pillow at dusk, his long eyelashes fighting with not known to her demons of his childhood. She is used to seeing flames in his violet eyes and their magnitude scares her; she fears the dragon's fury and one is hidden in Viserys' anger. But the rage and hurt never manifests in physical violence. Her Tully colored eyes shake as Arya's fingers stay still on her own. 

"No," the word is nothing but a whisper but her sister hears it anyway. She slowly nods, as if she was still unsure of Sansa's testimony, however she doesn't pry more. "He isn't violent with me," she supplies and squeezes smaller palm. Viserys makes her feel strange: there are some feelings she can not name but there are things she thinks she understands. Stability, irritation, care and in between all of them even a tinge of comfort. Arya looks behind her and frowns. It's the frown that makes Sansa remember her younger sibling running through the Great Hall with mud on her cheeks. So carefree and naive. These emotions sadly no longer present in her hunter's form. But Arya's eyes change to steel and before she can protest her sister's hand is no longer in her hold. When she turns she half expects Lord Royce with another pressing matter and a letter in his hand. Deep down inside she knows it's her husband's presence. He stands tall and regal, his tresses tangled at their ends yet still elegant fly around his face as his eyes narrow at two sisters next to each other. She sees him calculating, desperately thinking about some kind of treacherous scheme between them and she feels a tug of sorrow. There is serenity in the way he looks so familiar with Northern landscape and with snowflakes on his pale cheeks. The unknown feeling clenches the strings around her heart. The sight so mesmerizing that she spots Arya's lips moving in slow motion. 

"My sister needs to rest. She's not well," there are seconds between Arya's sentences and her departure and Sansa lets a heavy sigh. She wishes for another life in which she could be as deadly as her sister and strong as her brothers. From her left she hears footsteps on a wet wood that stop close to her, yet leaving her enough space. The wind picks up and her red locks cover almost whole of her peripheral vision, but she knows he stares - she can feel the heat coming from her neck upwards. She hasn't spoken to him since the day of their row. He also slept in his private chamber, leaving her alone with the ugly memories in her dreams. They were both too proud and too stubborn to take the blame yet in these few days she tasted loneliness even more. 

"Is it true?" His question is loud and raw. Almost accusing. Her shoulders hitch up due to the close proximity of his body. She dares to look up to glance at his troubled features. It's strange how her husband can manifest so many emotions inside his Targaryen eyes. Her lips quiver when she straightens. 

"Nothing too serious, my lord," she says breaking the eye contact. His breathing is irregular and she can almost feel his agitation and restlessness. Her wounds play an unfair game as one of the deepest ones unleashes a fire of pain that almost leaves her breathless. Her palm comes up to the covered in snow stone railing for support but a male one holds her steady at the small of her back. The heat of his hand sweeps between the layers of her clothing like a wildfire. "The weather changes. My body is reacting to the temperature, Maester says so," in reality she wants to lay on the bed and forget about work and her duty. In the hollowness of her greed she wishes for a peace, a time without tyrant at her door and dragon flying above her homeland. Viserys places slender arm around her and with a swift move he turns her towards himself. He searches for something on her face while his lips part when he exhales. His breath fans her cheeks. 

"Why didn't you tell me, Sansa?" He is so close she can taste wine. Violet irises shake and for a moment she wants to nuzzle in the space between his neck and chiseled chin. Long fingers gently move hair from her eyes and she swears something flutters in her abdomen when he does that. He looks like a painting, cold and stoic. She's been occupied with the past ghosts of a man who doesn't love her and it's been exhausting. She's lonely and scared: scared of herself mostly. His grip on her tightens when she softly sways. 

"Do you hate living in the North?" It comes from her mouth but the need comes from her heart. Need of some kind of closure. Assurance of future. Her husband observes her and his Adam's apple moves few times before he looks at the scenery surrounding them. "Is it so unbearable here, _with me?_" The second part she almost whispers because being scared of rejection is in her nature. She knows she's the one who has been stuck in a platonic relationship with Jon for a while, but Viserys is here. He's been beside her for moons. He's here and even though they argue and have problems she feels content. It's the past that makes her too suspicious to let herself loose in feelings so she doesn't allow her heart to fully enjoy her marriage. She can see the torment on his face as he doesn't move or speak. Sansa knows it's another banishment to him, another plot of a sister who takes rightful throne away and banishes her only brother time after time. Being her husband is another form of imprisonment and threat of hers. 

"It's not easy, yes," he supplies with furrowed brows, in doing so he looks older. "North is another prison for me. My sister thinks I'm too greedy and too power hungry, but it's my right. Why can't I crave it yet she is allowed to?" His digits tense on the back of her head. "North is barren and empty. The sun is cold," he looks disgusted and her heart aches. It's her home. The North is hers. "Yet. Yet I have you, a living personification of North. Is North as unforgiving as you, Sansa?" Purple eyes roam on her face, digging, searching for an answer that lays in her chest. She reminisces about the day she was wed to him: the snow wasn't falling back then. Leaves were dancing on a crisp air as Bran on his wheelchair presented her to Targaryen prince. He looked as disinterested as her but somehow even repulsed. At first she thought it was because of her, her tarnished virtue and chastity but when he bedded her that night - full of tremors and whispers of guidance that disgust was absent. Viserys was always a mystery - contradiction of sorts. The hurt attached to his person like a stigma made him paranoid, but she could easily see broken pieces of a young boy who lost family and forgot how to feel love. Sansa blinks and focuses on Targaryen orbs before she courageously cups his cheek in her bare palm. His skin is hot even if North tests his limits. She sees a muscle of his jaw; twitching and responding to her touch. 

"I haven't been an example of a wife, have I? Truthfully, I don't know how to be a good wife anymore," he watches her in morbid fascination that catches her attention. "As long as you are kind to North, North will return your affections," she whispers before she stands up on her toes to plant a chaste kiss on his lips. Yes, it's the wine she tastes. When she breaks the contact he stops her. Dragon wakes and lust is evident in his stare - his breathing hitches and his bones tremble. Viserys leans again, kissing her forehead - she clenches her hands onto his cloak because memories flow with an extraordinary speed - and slowly, inch by inch he kisses her parted mounds with an urgency that she's familiar with. He is hungry, his tongue protrudes through her lips as he places both of his hands on her neck only to bring her closer. She tastes his desperation and fear; it mirrors with her melancholy and loneliness. When she closes her eyes it's the pair of violet eyes and white hair she sees and for a moment she can hear her own heart beating. Soaring through her bloodstream. She's been ashamed of thinking about grey orbs and rough hands while being intimate with her husband - the shame she had to bear day by day, praying to gods to set her free of that emotional prison. Tasting her husband, feeling his fingers playing with her skin and thinking about him make her bold enough to open her eyelids and meet his passion filled eyes. When they break, she has to grip his shoulders for support. The thing between them is palpable but doesn't have a name. Her cheek rests in the hollow of his neck, she inhales his masculine yet so natural scent and sighs. He smells so much like home it scares her. Because it means that she had let her guard down. They both stand on the battlements, in the arms of each other, but the invisible wall between them still exists. She longs for peace, laying her tired body onto furs and sleep without distractions of another dragon fire. Without wars creeping from South. 

"The North will never be independent with Daenerys on the throne," he speaks into her hair but she hears him. The sinking realization of his words snaps her head from the peaceful lull of his chest. His features are set hard in a resemblance of stone figures like ones in the crypts. The fear rapidly comes closer as she stubbornly searches for a hidden meaning. Because she's aware of their situation, of another tyrant ruling her land. "If it was me, I would have let North have its sovereignty," she closes her eyes and lets go of him as if he suddenly burned her. Her head hurts due to his power hungry persona coming out so unexpectedly. She's so tired, the wars already had taken a huge toll on her. 

"What you say right now is a treason," Sansa quickly breaks his frenzy and steps one step away. "I can't let my people suffer again," she turns and finds solace in a barren sight of snowy landscape. The trees are calling her, their songs soothing her nerves. "I wish there was another way to have our independence back," her voice cracks but the steel armor still protects her. "My family paid the price of the game of thrones. I bled for North and if I had to I would have gone through all of it again," the wind licks her skin with harsh yet familiar coldness. "But she burned a whole city with one dragon, innocent people died in such a horrible way. I can't let her do the same to my home," then she steals a glance at her husband conflicted face. Her scars are hurting, each step is making them more painful but right now she's trying to make him forget about the power and South. She had lost so much to the sunny lands of unworthy kings and queens. 

"She won't stop tormenting us," he snaps and Sansa feels sadness. Deeply rooted panic takes hold of his rationality and she doesn't want to see him like that. Twisted, broken and foreboding. "Maybe if we could gather an army," his hopeful inquiry makes her chest feel like on fire. The memories of dead skeletons crawling on the floor, and _gods_ the sounds of their wailing. 

"Do you wish to start another rebellion, Viserys?" Lilac irises find her own in a mute agreement and she sags. He is there to catch her waist but she can feel panic gripping her throat and burning her windpipe. She can hear dragon's roar as its black body roams on the sky above Twins and Riverrun. Treacherous voice at the back of her head whispers that's a good plan to fight oppressors but she knows what the price will be. Death.

"Don't say such things to anyone, do you understand?" She feverishly digs for truth on his features as he slowly nods. "She could have you killed for that," her grip on his arm wavers at the thought. He slips from her hold and for a moment she can sense conflict within him. He just stares at her with mysterious intensity, like a dragon ready do fly. 

"Perhaps you would be glad then," his tone is soft but his face is hard and impassive as he goes, leaving her with his words echoing through the maze of her mind. She feels the weight of his confession and with a choking sound she puts a hand on her mouth. She wouldn't. She knows, _no,_ she is certain she wouldn't be. 

* * *

In the smallness of her solar she can spot things which are new and the ones she can associate with her mother. There are some things she wished were present but with Boltons in Winterfell she is glad that even a small amount of heirlooms were left behind. She stares at the fireplace while her hand smooths letter she received not so long ago. On her left Sam is jumping around her bare arm: his round cheeks are colored in red but on his face she can see sings of utter determination. Sansa lets herself relax as the man examines her body with an unknown in this matter to her precision. 

"How are Gilly and Little Sam faring? Is your chamber large enough?" She breaks the silence as his fingers check her pulse with concentration in his orbs. He is nervous and fidgets a lot but he makes her feel peaceful. He also brings memories of another crow - his brother who had left not only her but also him. 

"Ah, yes, my lady," he sputters at her voice and goes to his medical kit. "Our chamber is more than sufficient. Thanks to you," his hands search for something in a leather bag and when he finally finds a jar and an empty scroll he comes back to her side. "Gilly is learning embroidery, she is fantastic learner," his beam and glimpse of happiness inside his eyes make her oddly joyful. 

"She could come to my solar sometime. I'm quite known for my embroidery skills," she takes the goblet full of water this time and drinks looking at orange flames with a mild headache. 

"I will tell her, my lady," Sam's fingers pry the hem of her dress away and she startles. "Forgive me, I need to have a clear circulation," he provides when the sleeve is out of the way. He scribbles some words onto the paper and looks up to her with a slight discomfort on his features. "Have you experienced anything else than fatigue and headaches, my lady?" Her Tully eyes squint at the question but she remains sited and pensive for a moment. She thinks of her painful wounds and stretch of her scars but she represses the thought as quickly as she can. It's too late for them to heal. 

"No," he looks at her with uncertainty but his hand moves and another letters are being written in a neat cursive. She wants to close her eyes and lavish in the stillness of her solar - not thinking about survival and food rations. But she can't, the reality comes upon her and she desperately wishes for a break. Break from wars which come from every direction, just like Baelish told her. The sound of Sam's writing and the pressure of his digits on her wrist lull her into oblivious cocoon of a lukewarm comfort. Her eyelids are heavy and tired just like bones in her too young to feel this way body. It's almost there, she can feel it, the sweet feeling of an escape from daily routines. But it's gone so rapidly when a knock wakes her from the semi slumber. 

"Lady Sansa," she bites her lips hard and winces. 

"Come in," when Lord Royce sees Sam he stops and waits. Her head hurts and she doesn't want to bother with the details of privacy yet he is the one of her most trusted advisors. "Sam, would you mind leaving us alone?" The young Maester opens his mouth with sweat coming on his forehead. 

"But my lady," he starts looking between her and the other man. "I have to tell you," she stops him with a slow move of her hand. "It's important," his nervous voice echoes in her ears but she's too determined to have Lord Royce's audience. 

"It can wait," her tone is clipped, nevertheless she smiles at him with warmth in her eyes. Sam is still twitchy when he gathers his equipment and before he exits he looks back at her with something like a worry in his eyes. "Thank you," she says and he hurriedly vanishes behind her door. Lord Royce bows in front of her and steps further into her solar with a big frown. 

"My lady, I hope it wasn't a pressing matter," he claims as his glance moves towards the exit. Her head bobs as a no and he visibly relaxes. "I wished to speak to you about the situation in Wintertown," his armor makes so much noise which irks her eardrums, nevertheless she focuses her stare on her guest. 

"I suppose it has to do with the scroll I've received from Twins," the lack of food is nothing but a tremendous task she has to bear on her shoulders. "The grain and supplies we've gathered are enough to distribute to the people," she thinks about riots whenever poor people become too hungry to rationally think about consequences. She doesn't blame them, not in the slightest. "I will personally go to see that everyone gets their own portion," her hand plays with a hem of her dress as she scans her companion under her red lashes. 

"You are most gracious, my lady," another bow yet the wrinkle still remains between his eyes. "However at this rate, food rations are going to be nonexistent before the next spring," he avoids eye contact and she knows he wants to say more so she patiently waits. "Maybe if Targaryen queen could send some supplements due to our alliance with her family," she stands up and world around her dances in her vision. The heat of fireplace is suddenly unbearable so she goes to stand by window. 

"Do you think she would be thoughtful enough to do so?" She counters as her back faces him so he can not see her long face. She almost laughs at his naive proposition, the thought of dragon queen being their salvation tastes bitter on her tongue. Yet there are people who starve, families left with nothing but a snow on their doorsteps. 

"Maybe after some coaxing she could see the reason behind it," his rough baritone breaks the silence and Sansa whirls around with furrowed brows. "Your cousin, my lady, he may persuade her into doing the right thing," she pinches her skin to feel anything else but not the regret creeping like a tiny spider. Because she can see Jon talking some sense to Daenerys and it pains her how much of influence she has on him. She envisions them on a black dragon flying through clouds of snow thunder and if Lord Royce sees any cracks in her mask he does not show it. Deep down inside she knows she has no right to feel these emotions but after all she will always be the emotional girl from her past. But something flickers in her mind, its magnitude comparable to Cersei's plots and she smirks. The wheels turn and she slowly makes her way to the man in her solar with a plan. A good one. 

"We shall postpone our arrival at Wintertown till queen's arrival," her voice is oddly calm. Like a water dripping from a wet cloth. "Then we will present food to people, with queen of the seven kingdoms beside us," she adds and sees recognition in Lord Royce's eyes. "She is about to taste her own ruling," he nods and she feels some of the burden from her shoulders vanish. 

"It's a good idea, my lady," his back straightens as he moves away from her wooden desk. "I will leave you to your thoughts and see to preparation of rations," there is a crooked smile on his face and she feels warm. Only if her father could see her right now. "My lady," she snaps her eyes at his person seeing him still in one spot. "Lord Targaryen," he stops and she stills. It's a known fact that Viserys isn't a likable figure at Winterfell and truly whole North. The lords tend to forget about his existence or not so discreetly speak foully about him. Her fingers grip the back of her chair as she awaits. 

"What about my husband?" Her question is laced with a palpable anxiety and she can see Royce's surprise at the nakedness of her worry. 

"Nothing serious. I apologize if I made you uncomfortable," he lowers his gaze for a second before continuing. "Lord Targaryen gathered few riders and rode to Castle Black. He wanted to see how the progress of rebuilding is going," then he bows and leaves her with a warmth pooling in her lower abdomen. She leans forward and exhales. The variety of feelings flood her instantly. Her husband's deed is a strange yet an admirable one - for someone who likes to nag about Northern climate and its secularism. She sees him in the eye of her mind galloping through falling snow, his red coat dancing on wind as his white hair fly around his marble features. To expect his return after his independent quest is almost feverish. There is an odd sound around her, a tapping. _Drip. Drop._ She blinks and sees water on the surface of her desk. Her cold palm comes to her cheek and when she inspects it she sees tears. Her eyes dripping with them in a silence. Is it how happiness comes to her? She muffles her laughter with trembling hand on her lips. How can she feel so little and yet so much? Viserys eyes gleam in her memories as she slowly sits and covers her face behind red tresses. That lunatic sensation sends her into a fit of joy she hasn't experienced in such a long time, she almost forgot how the belly feels like after a healthy dose of laughter. The thing is, she's been constantly trying to fight those feelings - repress them at the back of her emotional spectrum. There is a tingling on her side and in her peripheral vision she sees _him_ \- dressed in a cloak she had made for him with ale in his hand. His eyes reflect fire and he smiles one of the smiles he's reserved for her. Her heart shakes and before he vanishes she can see his stare - reaching her, telling her something, ebbing at her mind with a full force. It's there, she thinks. The unspoken farewell. She closes her eyelids and lets tears freely travel down her cheeks. 

"Time has come," she whispers and her chest feels less overwhelmed than it was for so many moons. Two knocks startle her and before she speaks she pats on her face to conceal a small breakdown. 

"Enter," her voice cracks but the person doesn't mind. The nervous sight of Sam greets her one more time and she relaxes. He stumbles into her solar and cautiously moves towards her with a frown. 

"My lady, I must tell you," he stops next to her and fidgets whenever her blue eyes find his. She beacons him closer yet he doesn't even flinch. There is a whirlpool of things in his squinted stare. "There is a matter of_\- no_," wincing he looks as if in any given moment he would pass out. "My lady," finally he looks precisely in her orbs with a crease on his forehead. "You are with child," there is an invisible pin in her solar that drops with his words and spins her so fast that she experiences flashbacks of every stage of her life.   


* * *

When she was younger she had dreams about her future - full of songs and chivalrous knights, flower crowns in her hair and dozens of her children named after her descendants. Those dreams slowly but surely faded away as her imprisonment diminished every ounce of happiness she's ever possessed. She's decided back then to gently tuck them under the cover of nonchalance and submission; only to taste them in her dreams. The taste of them so familiar and overpowering brought her even more suffering than a lack of her past hopes. Deprived of family - leaving her one by one, she focused on survival and not her unknown future. Meeting Jon after all of those long moons of separation and longing for another breathing kin revoked every childish dream she had. At first he reminded her so much of father that simply looking at him was painfully exhausting, however as the minutes passed her father's face drifted away. Jon was Jon, her half-brother, a sense of home she searched for. Back when she had spent more time with him, she should have decipher these emotions as love - but the war was waging around them and she desperately tried to keep him alive. Late in her empty bed chamber she envisioned her children; with black hair and Tully eyes. Those were the children only Jon could have given her and she should have been repulsed whenever the thoughts came yet she couldn't bring herself to. Small Robb and tiny Lyanna running at the back of her head and sometimes even in the daylight - their ghosts passing between her and Jon with a taste of hope. Hope that never came to live. 

Sansa moves to the other side of bed and shivers. The cold doesn't bother her, the memories do. Her white nightgown is hitched up so her bare stomach bathes in the light of a candle on her bed stool. The skin of it perched, small swell evident and almost prominent. Dragging her fingers across the skin of her abdomen she is almost scared - a life of her unborn babe is in her hands now, the size of it so small yet the heaviness of obligation more or less suffocating. She displays one hand over the center of it and inhales. There it is, the existence created between her and her husband. A child to protect and love, a child so worryingly defenseless. In her mind she sees a white haired girl running through the green trees; when she turns around she stares at her own eyes. The view fades and Sansa gasps out loud. The traces of vision send shivers down her spine as she slowly sits up. It's late.

Tugging the hem of her dress down she reaches for a fur to cover her exposed body - she's waiting for Viserys. He should arrive soon as the moon already hangs on the dark sky. She's also restless, she supposes it may be connected to the news of her pregnancy. In the whirl of preparations and her marriage she didn't have a time to fully grasp the idea of a possible conceiving. She had one fear - that the torture she was exposed to while being Ramsay's hostage made her unable to have a child on her own. It was a voice that whispered whenever she doubted her own value. Yet the proof of her resilience exists in her tummy. Her eyes are itching to close but she fights the drowsiness and slides on her part of the bedding. She likes to lay on his side - the scent of him, softening her erratic heartbeats is what she needs. There are steps in the corridor and she believes it's her husband as the stride is long but steady. In fact she faces the entrance before it opens, revealing a disheveled profile and visibly het up gaze of her spouse. He shuts the door with an unnecessary force and feverishly takes his gloves off, throwing them on a nearby chair. 

"How was your ride?" She breaks the tension and drags her legs from under the cover to stand up. The cold nibs from every direction but she welcomes it. He is silent in observing her and she stops awaiting his response. His lips part as he ventures towards a fireplace. She can see his strained position as his neck steadily flexes due to her inquiry. 

"Castle Black is almost repaired," there is a note of anger but it flickers only for a moment. His bones are tense and she tries to focus on his features but he turns away one more time, exposing his spine. "The Wall will be a tremendous task to accomplish," he adds looking at her over his shoulder. She nods at his words and anxiously steps closer, as if he was wounded animal ready to pounce away. 

"It was kind of you to overlook the process," his stare only magnifies as she reaches for his hand. It's bitterly cold and she massages the inner part with her digits to heat it up. The piercing temperature is unforgiving to Targaryen beside her. Viserys studies her without a sound. It's strange, she is trying to determine what has transpired on his journey to make him so immobile and distant. Somehow his stillness scares her. Purple irises are blinding when she peeks at him with a soft smile tugging on her dry mounds. 

"Did you know," his breath hitches and he bites his cheek with an unleashed fury on his face. "The dragon that destroyed Wall was named after me?" His quivering fingers take her chin and make her look at him. His nostrils flare and she thinks he's going through an emotional turmoil. 

"No, I didn't know," male's fingertips touch her cheek and she closes her eyelids. They are burning her tissue. His hold is tender yet the hardness of his gaze makes her wonder even more. "What does a dragon has to do with anything?" Her palm comes to rest upon his breastbone when she asks. 

"First one to die," he chokes up and it's pitiful but also heartbreaking. "Only in its death it became powerful enough to overtake obstacles," her heartbeat rises and she thinks how hard it must have been for a young boy who loved and lost everything and then himself. His grip flatters, however he puts his forehead on hers - his weight coming onto her like a hammer. It's as if the strain of his demons caught up with her. 

"But you're here," she mumbles cupping both of his cheeks, fiercely trying to convey her thoughts by physical closeness. "That's all that matters," his skin is suddenly so hot that she staggers but he catches her. 

"The queen you would have been," his kiss on her brow leaves an icy imprint of his lips there as he dips towards her mouth. "I'm a dragon too," the way his hunger manifests in intrusion of his tongue makes her tremble. He's kissing her as if she was a fountain from which he could drink whole water - drop by drop. Like a dying man catching air in his lungs Viserys consumes her senses. Her hands curl around his middle and when he breaks away she breathes his scent in. It's tickling her nose, musk and the smell of North. Strong but kind. "And dragons take whatever they want, in fire and blood," he tries to move but she doesn't let him. The words echoing in her ears contrast with dreams of her unborn child. They almost crush her to the ground. 

"_Please,_" he stills beside her. "I'm with child," she looks at him then, sees his features twisting in shock, pain, emptiness and finally desperate serenity. Violet orbs study her but unexpectedly his body moves faster than she's ever seen him. 

"Our child," he speaks as his hand comes to rest upon her stomach. It's shaking and so is he. In between his blinks Sansa spots fear that slowly morphs onto his face. It's a rather painful change, every trace of happiness is nowhere to be seen when the realization hits him. His body crashes onto the chair and she just stands looking at his doings. Not quite sure what she had expected. Viserys grips the wood with so much force that it almost breaks - his tendons flexing and veins becoming visible even in the dark of their chamber. She observes his ragged breathing, hunched form and almost menacing glint in his eyes, feeling more like a foolish girl but before she can run away his grip on her stops her. He's hovering above her and for the first time she had met him, basked in the candlelight and with hair tousled in an angry manner he resembles a dragon. Beautiful but a deadly one. Her heart aches when he steadies her while seeking for something in her gaze. 

"She will take it from us," his strangled whisper hits her like a waterfall. Because it makes sense, it makes so much sense to take their child and claim it as her heir. Daenerys is barren, she stripped Jon from his right to the throne but still she needs successor to lead her Targaryen dynasty. And what makes it even more personal - her disdain towards her brother and North. Sansa's orbs shake as every puzzle is placed in front of her. So horribly plain to see yet overlooked by her in the haze of wars and martial fog. It's her own downfall, first Jon, then North and now her own child. Everything spins and she doesn't know if it's her or the chamber but the shapes are blurry and so far away. The game is still on, she can't be free of it even now. The faces of her siblings attack her mind, loud sound of people's chant while her father's head is being chopped off tilts her sight. She's going to take everything from her, the pungent taste of reality makes her excruciatingly obvious to everything. The idea of her child taken away blinds her with such a pain she thought of impossible to feel. Not after everything she's been through. 

"Sansa," she snaps towards her husband voice with a sob coming from her lips. The wail had been building up within her but she repressed it. Viserys is so close she can practically hear his fanatic heartbeats as he takes her into his arms. As if they were her safe haven. "We won't let her, _I won't_," he swears while gently placing chaste kiss upon the crown of her hair. "For I am dragon," his tone is like a frost, cutting the tension but even in this moment the promise of his resonating inside her like a lullaby. 


	4. iv

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ice and fire.  
Wolf and Dragon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm terribly sorry for the delay in posting this chapter. I've been extremely busy 😣. Thank you for your support, it means so much ❤️

It's the most greenest part of the forest surrounding Winterfell she's ever been to. The trees are tall, covered in snowflakes yet still so magnificently green. The air too - crisp and fresh, it circles in her lungs as her lips part with soft exhale. Wind is gently blowing her hair which came loose due to the ride to outskirts of the castle. Standing in the middle of woodland Sansa tastes peace on her tongue, a sweet flavor which expands and grows making her oddly happy. She can almost hear whispers of her past carrying words of wisdom, apologies and even love confessions. The landscape brings something raw and so painfully naïve out of her as her blue eyes stare at the road ahead of her. It's not adventure she seeks for but a redemption. She's a greedy being, desperate to be loved, to be needed and maybe those feelings aren't essentially evil yet the want is devious thing. Fickle too. Her nostrils flare as the scent of snow and trees mixed together attacks her senses. It's a smell of her father. Of hope and lost childhood. The bird inside her is almost gone; its wings spread to fly, claws hidden - fragile bones with an extraordinary strength. It trashes inside her chest and truthfully she's scared of letting it free. It's a part of her, a stitch of her armor that shaped her into present Sansa. But it's a flaw too; an ugly bruise on her insides, clawing on her organs with poison dripping from its peck. Lion, stag, dragon. The howling wilderness of the wolf hidden inside her wants to take over and maybe she should have let it sooner yet the changes are terrifying. Red tresses come upon her forehead and cheeks but she's too busy thinking to drag them away. The mission of hers, her own passion is an never ending circle. A labyrinth of joyless existence. Her palm comes upon a small bump on her stomach and her eyes water. She's not a child anymore, she was one for a short period of time. A fleeting moment of delight and comfort. 

A pale hand arrives in her peripheral vision, long fingers softly fixing her hair so it doesn't irritate her eyes. Her husband looks at her with a face of knight of her dreams; his purple irises take her features in, his touch burning her cold skin. He wears the colors of his house, a crimson red cloak she's made for him is draped over his broad shoulders. Her posture relaxes when his digit massage her stiff neck. 

"I almost forgot how quiet these lands are," she whispers and smiles at his expressionless face. It was his idea to ride out and roam around the Winterfell. Sam had some objections due to her pregnancy, however after heated discussion he agreed on one condition. No galloping. She had snorted back then, thinking about how heavy her dress must have been if she had decided upon riding so fast. Blinking the memories away she glances at the sky while Viserys' fingertips brush against her chin. 

"You barely leave Winterfell," his voice is almost melodic. It has very little of anger he initially possesses. "A true Warden of the North," he places hot kiss on her cheek and withdraws only to look at her under his white lashes. She chuckles thinking about his words, she could swear that in the back of her head erupts her father's laughter. 

"Speaking of the North," she eyes him with a sly smirk ghosting on her pink lips. "Does the cloak keep you warm?" Her question is laced with innocence yet he quickly deciphers her irony. 

"There is something different that prevents me from freezing," his tongue clicks and Sansa closes her eyelids awaiting for the dragon's affection. His mouth nibs against her, at first slowly, his body heat coming off of him on her in waves of lust surrounding both of them. He can be so gentle and kind, the images of broken boy flash inside of her mind before she can stop them. Cruelty oftentimes breeds another kind of ruthlessness. Viserys' kind of brutality is hidden inside him and whatever keeps it locked, it's not strong enough. 

"I always wanted to leave Winterfell and live in the heat of South, to bathe in turquoise waters of palaces build on suffering," she mumbles in the crook of his neck and sighs. "I was an awful brat, so stupid and carefree," his chest moves in a steady rhythm that lulls her into a feeling of security. 

"We were all mindless and foolish children,  _ sweetheart,"  _ that pet name makes the broken butterflies in her abdomen flutter. "Constantly craving attention and love. Always taking, never giving," he combs her long hair before he takes her head in his palms and looks directly in her eyes. "But our parents unfailingly knew about those things, most of them accepted flaws or mistakes of their children," his jaw is set and for a while he doesn't talk. There is a white fog crossing behind his lilac irises. "We must never let our child feel as if they were unloved or unwanted," he searches for something on her face - reassurance or maybe understanding. She doesn't know exactly but something very powerful stirs in her chest as her eyes flicker to his. The heat climbs up her spine and with a set mind she jumps into his arms and holds him close, nose pressing into his tresses. He smells like this forest, like home. Her fingers shake while she's trying to absorb the moment and the fact that she habitually feels emotions surging through her bloodstream. In this moment she almost loves him. _Nearly_. She's so close to finding the perfect way of breaking chains of her shattered heart. 

"Viserys," his name on her lips tastes like lemon cakes when she frees herself from his embrace and glances at his sharp features. So cold and uninviting yet beautiful and calm. Her chest rises and falls as both of them soak in silence while looking at the other. The trees are moving, snow melts on her heated cheeks as her palm comes up and cups his jawbone. He looks like a picture, a prince of winter with his hair fluttering on wind. There is a thunder inside of her and her mounds part as her heartbeat quickens. 

"I'm most grateful--," she stops because she suddenly becomes scared. Her skin prickle with fear, the openness of one's feelings brings her to the point of crumbling down. The resolve though straightens her back when she sorts her thoughts. It's an affection, a sentiment towards her husband. She can name it. But the unresolved feeling under her ribcage frightens her. "Our marriage, I'm filled with gratitude that it's you who I'm spending the rest of my life with," her statement sounds wrong and she winces when the man in front of her eagerly listens to her ramblings. "There is an emotion, a feeling I have abhorred towards you," she breathes out catching an intense look in his eyes. "I cannot name it yet, but you must know that I do not consider our marriage solely as a political one," her teeth graze over her lower lip. Viserys steps closer and the sound of his footsteps gives her gooseflesh. 

"Say it," another step. 

Her Tully colored eyes meet his purple ones. They are on fire. 

"It doesn't have a name," she mutters when his fingers cage her chin. It's a dare. She can see challenge on his face but also desperation. Sansa knows those needs. 

"But is it there?" A hope. 

Her pale hand grips his wrist. She can see their future, a spring so bright and warm with green grass and small feet dangling from trees in the Winterfell's backyard. The taste of peace and victory brings her another kind of pain - a good one, she can pretty much call it longing. 

"It is and it grows," she answers. Truth rolls from her tongue so easily that the burden of her self imprisonment unexpectedly leaves. Her husband watches her in tranquility, his chest heaves with his quickened breathing. He suits Northern landscape, she muses, his complexion and overall appearance resemble ice and snow. 

"Sansa," her head shots up. His eyes betray his inner turmoil but there's something, an unknown speck of tenderness she hasn't seen before. It's raw and blindingly pure, a devotion in which she wants to bask. The eyes of a young boy, the one who hasn't lost his mother yet, stare at her and she wishes to make him stay. She wants the boy to persist. He deserves to. 

"I know," she says because she understands. They both are similar that way. Creatures no one wanted, no one loved. Desperate to be cherished and adored.  _ "I know _ ," her smile tugs on her lips after repeated words. 

She wants him. 

Her stomach curls with heat and before she can move a horrendous screech resonates through the sky above them. A black shape crosses tall trees, its puffed belly nearly grazing its highest branches. It roars again and she can imagine a burning city with thousands of people trying to get away from such a horrible death. Now the horror of such fate arrives on her doorstep. She shares a look with her husband and with a slight nod they both decide on their departure. The game is on. As she rides away from the forest the less content she feels. 

* * *

It's a deja vu. Once upon a time it was her who stood in the courtyard with her parents to greet a king, later she had waited for Jon and help in a form of dragons - now as both her and Viserys ride into the same place she doesn't know exactly who she is. The dragon is nowhere to be seen and without it Daenerys Targaryen is only a woman just like her. Queen's black robes are stuffed with fur, her braided hair put in a thick plate - she resembles her child in a frightening manner. She stops her horse in a middle of the square and as she fights with a hem of her dress another presence comes to her side. 

"_Sansa_," she closes her eyes before facing him and with a sharp move of her neck she eyes Jon's hand. His beard is still disheveled and the haunted look behind his dark irises sends shivers down her rigid spine. The visions of him fed her demons but looking at him right now does nothing to her. The vast emptiness inside of her screams as she spots his shaking digits. Another hand shots up and Viserys' face materializes on her left. Blinking her haze away she puts her fingers inside of her husband's strong grip. He circles an arm around her waist and with a swift movement sets her on the muddy ground. The splash of her boots echoes around them when she steals a glance at her furiously stoic cousin as her husband throws him seething look never letting go of her. 

"Haven't you received a scroll with information about our arrival?“ The shrill undertone of warning in Queen's question wakes her up from a strange fog. 

"We have," Viserys snaps and his palm shakes in her hold. "Forgive us if you felt abandoned," the poison drips from his words. Daenerys finds it amusing as her perfect brow rises and a strangled chuckle escapes her full lips. 

"Now, now, are we going to get at each other throats in front of all these people?" She gestures to the crowd of maids and blacksmiths. Her tiny person walks towards them with an authority in her body. She looks as if she owns this place, Sansa's home and legacy. The only thing she wants, the only thing she's suffered for so much. In that moment she hates her - not because she took Jon away, never that but the way she continues to conquer the soil her family bled for, the home she has fought for. Her hatred is bright and steady, she masks it behind a freezing smile. "My sister," violet irises shine with maddening satisfaction when she assess her person. The smaller woman stops in front of her with a frown marking her cruelly beautiful face. 

"My Queen," her armor is set as her opponent studies her with an intensity that almost breaks through her facade. "Winterfell is yours," she lies once again.  _ It will never be hers _ , voices of her family murmur in the gust of wind that passes them. "I hope you won't take the offense of us being late to greet you," her head bobs in a small apology. 

"Oh, not at all. I'm most pleased to see my brother enjoying his marital duties," there is mockery in the statement and she feels Viserys' muscles spasm. 

"My lord husband it the most gracious," she quickly says and dips in courtesy like a peaceful dove. 

"What a surprise," Daenerys deadpans with a disgusted expression but it changes when another man comes to her side. "Has it changed?" She asks him while putting her hand inside of his elbow. Sansa's eyes move away and her chest becomes heavy with something similar to disappointment. 

"It's just like I remembered it to be," a gruff answer startles her a bit. His grey eyes roam around the battlements and linger there for a moment.  _ Do you cherish those memories? _ She wants to know, she wants to claw her way inside his head and see all the things he has hidden. Strip him bare from all secrets and see if it was her who was stupid enough to believe they could have had a future together. He coughs bringing her back to the courtyard and her company. "Where's Arya and Bran?" His orbs burn her when they look straight at her. She can see Daenerys' displeasure at his inquiry by the way her lips make a flat line. 

"Bran is probably with Samwell Tarly," velvet voice of her husband supplies. "When it comes to my wife's sister she's wild enough to be in two places at the same time," she steals a glance at white haired man next to her and lets herself smile hearing his description. Squeezing his palm she silently thanks him. If their exchange amazed their guests they remain unbothered. 

"Ghost's hunting, when he realizes you're here he will come back," she adds nodding at Jon and suddenly feeling very exhausted. The ride has helped her to clear her mind and relax but the distance and previous preparations has resulted in her weakened state. Not to mention her babe, her morning illness has become her daily routine and each dawn she would empty her stomach with a gut wrenching moans. Her body isn't hers now, she's a shelter for her unborn child. Sensing her fatigue Viserys' hold intensifies. 

"I expect you haven't forgotten the way to chambers," he sounds irritated but the veil of fake pleasantries hangs underneath his annoyance. "There's going to be a feast later so you should retire to ease your bones after such a tiresome journey," his smile cuts through his sister. "We shall do the same," he closes his face from any emotion and without looking back he pulls her towards the entrance. Never looking back, never wanting to see what he's left. She can feel Jon's stare on her back yet she knows, she's promised herself, there's nothing he could do to make her turn. 

* * *

It's Arya anguished face that breaks her steel resolve. The Great Hall is busy, orange light coming off of the candles lit the interior in a warm hue as another set of food is being delivered. But it's not enough to prevent her eyes from stealing quick glances at her little sister - no longer a deadly hunter but a child sulking in the corner. The heartbreak evident in her stormy eyes as she stubbornly plays with meat on her plate. That way she looks like a girl from Sansa's dreams, a wild and sweet sister who's completely different from her chills her to the bones. Bran remains motionless and his silence is strong enough to make their guests uncomfortable. Her heart spasms inside her chest when her siblings look even more haunted. Clenching her fingers on the fork she sets it on table's surface not feeling like eating at all. 

"Your wife is awfully quiet, dear brother," a silky voice nags from her left as Viserys' knee bumps into hers. His posture is tense and painfully ready to attack. Like a serpent before it strikes its prey. 

"Maybe you should take a hint then, _Dany_" he emphasizes her name and with a frighteningly fast movement grabs his goblet. The wine trickles down his throat leaving his lips colored in a deep red. A droplet is falling from the corner of his mouth and her blue eyes trace its journey. Her palm itches to touch him and before she can think about how inappropriate it may look like her fingertip presses against his jaw. Purple irises found hers and the tenderness resurfaces as her touch flatters. Realizing her deed she quickly puts her hand down and offers him soft smile. 

"My you've grown quite close, haven't you?" White haired woman laughs and with a forced mirth claps her hands together. "Who would have thought," she muses while observing both of them. Searching for any sign of weakness, for a crack that could potentially lead her to another war. "Your sweet Jon was so unhappy and worried," there's hardness on her young face when she spats her venom at their side. "His precious cousin with my estranged brother," her cup reaches her lips. She hides her cruel smile behind it and Sansa inwardly presses herself in front of her husband. 

"I would like to thank you, your grace," she says with a slight bow of her head. Viserys' fingers find their way towards the small of her back. "Weren't it for you I wouldn't have a chance in happiness," the blush that comes upon her cheeks is tactical but when grey orbs shoot her a fierce look she has to glance down. 

"Oh, _Sansa_," her name is said in a mocking tone. As if she was a worm to be crushed, to be destroyed. "Between us two I would have never thought he's capable of feeling anything else than rage," her Targaryen eyes stare at her kin with hatred. She can feel her husband fighting with himself, his bones trembling, twisting to the point of him gripping the seat arm. His knuckles turn white, he looks as if the dragon within him could burst in flames in any second. It's a pitiful thing to witness, to see him crumbling beneath such hurtful words. His tresses cover a side of his face but she can hear him breathing through his nose, trying to stay in one place - demons of his past catching up with him one by one. The beast is alive, his tendons almost ripping through his black tunic. Her stomach lurches at that sight and without looking at the other woman she places her open palm on his lap. The shaking stops as he stares at her outstretched hand. His spine cracks and she tries not to cry. 

"Love," her whisper is met with a wild look of violet irises gazing at her through the curtain of loose hair. She feels Arya's stare on her but she doesn't stop her taming. "Do you think we could ride tomorrow too?" His grip easens as his nostrils flare with each breath. When he straightens he looks powerful, magnificent - looming over everyone at their table. A golden boy, her true companion. His lips part open as he studies her with a frown. 

"If that will make you happy," his strangled voice wavers but he gently cups her hand and squeezes it without force. She wonders if the past catches with him right now. If he thinks about abandonments, deaths and lost families. Because she does. The wolf inside of her howls with yearning for him. It's a strange thing, maybe it's their babe but she sees him in a different light - a bright halo which keeps shining even more. 

"It does," she slowly grabs her goblet and waters her dry lips. Just a touch, she knows she can't drink but both her and her husband understand that keeping their child as a secret is their priority. Her red tresses come loose and tickle her bare arm as she tries to stop over thinking. 

"How's Castle Black and the Wall?“ A thick accent breaks her from a trance and with pained smile she twists in her seat. 

"Viserys is overlooking the process," looking at him is almost unbearable. Moments of their history pass through her mind when his heated gaze never leaves her person. 

"He doesn't even know how they looked like before," his gruff chuckle is met with a giggle of the Queen. They suit each other, she thinks, both so taken with another, equally blind of their flaws. 

"And what's that to you," Sansa seethes through her teeth. Hot anger flows through her blood as she observes Daenerys and Jon with disgust dropping from her features. They come here uninvited to bring a havoc - not minding North's needs, their problems. Always taking: from her, from her home. As if she was a mere vessel, an object. "My husband and I are rebuilding the North as you sweat in the heat of Kings Landing," Viserys' fingers curl around her wrist in a calming manner but she has had enough. "People are starving because of the consequences of your war, young children stagger around Wintertown with nothing but a goat blanket," her accusations are meticulously sharp. Purple eyes narrow at her outburst.

"Sansa, I didn't mean--," Jon's hand tries to crawl through the dishes towards hers but she wrenches her own before he can touch her. 

"You always says so," her sigh astounds him as grey eyes flicker with hurt so obviously great she has to close her eyelids. He had chosen South, he had given up North. 

"What a pair of quarreling half-siblings," Daenerys huffs while playing with a rim of her cup. She's dangerously still for a second before she drops her gaze to Sansa's waist. "I wonder how much longer shall we wait for your child," she smirks standing up and giving Jon a nonverbal command. The man moves on his feet shooting aloof look towards his cousin but Sansa is still rooted in one place. "Excuse us," the words are spoken in a placid tone as both of them vanish through back door. It's not an innocent visit anymore. The Queen has come to assess the situation of her marriage. A future heir to possess. She hears chair moving and from her peripheral vision she sees Arya leaving the table. It's not a family anymore. Just a broken halves of it. 

* * *

The cold is inviting, familiar. She gladly accepts the icy gusts of wind on her cheeks as her hands bask in the heat of her gloves. It's not a place she likes to visit at night but her restlessness and raging thoughts haven't brought her dreamless sleep. Standing in front of her father's favorite spot she looks like a ghost herself. With white gown and silver cloak on her shoulders she kneels in front of a face on the bark. Looking too deeply into its bloody features she sees every torment she's been through - every wound, every embarrassment she's bore under the whips of tyrants. She finds it hard to pray; too much suffering and failures laugh at her when her fingers try to search for a strength to believe. Has her father been in an impasse just like her? Her mother's figure resurfaces in her mind and Sansa feels tears pouring from her half closed eyelids. Her back hurts when she collapses in front of the history of her family's legacy. 

"Sansa?" She whips her head so fast that the nauseous feeling inside of her stomach rapidly moves to her lips. But all she does is sit on a freezing ground with pain exploding behind her ribcage. Her inner wolf cries out to the moon when the man in front of her takes few steps towards her. He's a creature of the night, so blindingly beautiful and mysterious. When he arrives next to her she crawls into his arms not minding the material of her dress. He is warm and soft, his tresses tickle her forehead as she presses herself even more into his body heat. She wants to absorb him by never letting him go. She's like a beggar; yearning to be touched and loved. To be the one, the chosen one to stay with. He kisses her skin and her body sings with joy and ecstasy. 

"Sweetheart," that name again. Her Tully eyes move towards his Targaryen ones. It's time to let the past die, to bury it. He's concerned and scared as he searches for an answer on her stricken with agony features. 

"Don't leave me," she whispers against his lips like a prayer under the Weirwood tree. "Love me," the bird in her golden cage spreads its wings. The purple of his orbs covers her in a lustful hue of want. "I want you," and not  _ him _ . 

Viserys breathes her scent in as his eyes study her with a leaps of possessiveness. Greedy creatures, that's who they are. His nose touches her temple as his long fingers hold her head up. She can't see his face but he shakes under her. His lips are nearing her ear, leaving the rest of her awaiting.

His grip on her tightens. 

"Tell me about Jon."


End file.
